


ordinary days

by ichigobun



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, Humor, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Smoking, Trans Linhardt von Hevring, Trans Male Character, oh my god they were roommates, they drink the bong water
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:40:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25427047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ichigobun/pseuds/ichigobun
Summary: “Fuck, I’m thirsty,” Sylvain sighed, looking up at Linhardt hopefully. “Did you bring anything to drink?”“No,” Linhardt stated without skipping a beat. He caught the exact moment that Sylvain’s hopes and dreams were thoroughly crushed and he would have laughed, but he was suffering just as much.Sylvain threw his head back with a groan. The water bottle he used to fill up the bong was completely empty, Linhardt noted.But then—slowly—Linhardt came to a realization.“What about the water in the bong?”This time, it was Sylvain’s turn to give him a concerned look. “Please don’t suggest something like that ever again.”
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Linhardt von Hevring
Comments: 8
Kudos: 55





	ordinary days

**Author's Note:**

> howdy have a dumb sylvhardt fic that's been living in my head rent free for the past week or so
> 
> title from ordinary days by toe, go listen to them if ur a slut for math rock like i am

Linhardt was performing his nighttime ritual in bed, puffing away at his dab pen and finishing off a lime white claw when he heard three firm knocks on his door. He checked the time on his phone, and _huh_ , it was 10pm already. Sylvain was always eager to rope Linhardt in his nightly adventures, and Linhardt was always eager to get smoked out for free. He blew the thin smoke into a pile of blankets to avoid setting off his fire alarm and eased himself out of his warm haven. 

It was still September, so evenings were mild and calming. Sometimes the temperature was so perfect that the air didn’t feel like anything on Linhardt’s skin. Judging by the breeze from his window, it was a bit cooler than that. He kept his nap sweatpants on, slipped on some random ankle socks and his Adidas slides.

When he opened the door, he immediately noticed Sylvain looked a bit toastier than usual. Linhardt could even _smell_ it. Sylvain was wearing one of his typical outfits—ripped jeans, a dark hoodie, and his black backpack, the source of that familiar scent. As Linhardt’s gaze continued to travel upward, he realized Sylvain’s eyes were nearly as red as his hair. 

“Howdy, Lin. Ready to go?” Sylvain beamed down at him. His hands clutched at the straps of his backpack like an innocent schoolboy, though Linhardt knew he was anything but.

Linhardt gave the air a quick sniff. “You reek of alcohol,” he noted plainly before stepping out of his room. 

“Oh,” Sylvain laughed, guiding Linhardt through their living room and out into the hallway, “I mean, I was just with Claude and Dimitri. And oh man, you won’t _believe_ what Dimitri did.”

“Won’t I,” Linhardt said flatly as he locked the door to their suite behind them. He was already feeling a bit crossed from earlier, like the world was moving slower than usual. Sylvain’s words seemed to float through one ear and out the other, and Sylvain’s usually-contagious enthusiasm failed to affect Linhardt.

“So, we were smoking a blunt, right?” Sylvain prompted, maybe a bit too loudly as they made their way down the hallway. “And Claude told Dimitri to Wu-Tang it. And like, Dimitri was already pretty drunk, so,” Sylvain chuckled, “the fucker _actually_ did it.”

Linhardt furrowed his brow. “Dimitri... _swallowed_ the roach?” 

“Yeah! Crazy, right?” Sylvain grinned, holding the door open for them to step outside.

“Uh,” Linhardt only had to imagine it for a second before scrunching up his nose in disgust, “that’s actually kind of gross.” 

Sylvain scoffed at him playfully. “Well, of course _you_ think it’s gross. You’d rather smoke your sad little dab carts than blunts.”

“Hm.” Linhardt glanced up at the stars as they walked toward the gazebo behind their dorms. It felt like the night sky could swallow him whole. “Well, that doesn’t make eating weed and a cigarillo wrap that everyone had put their mouths on any less gross.”

“That’s—” Sylvain made a weird sound that landed somewhere between a laugh and a snort. He was crossed, too. Whatever. “That’s the same exact thing Felix said. Well, before he passed out.”

They slowed their steps as they made their way underneath the gazebo. “Before he passed out from _what?_ ” Linhardt asked, giving Sylvain a concerned look.

“Oh, you know,” Sylvain waved his hands around like the charade would aid Linhardt in knowing the exact substance he must have fed Felix. They had to stand there for a moment as Sylvain’s brain buffered. “It was a, uh, THC pill.”

“...I see.” Linhardt remembered the first—and last—time he took a THC pill. He remembered genuinely feeling like he was about to pass away as he laid on the couch, surrounded by Sylvain and his equally high friends. They were blasting Taylor Swift songs that reverberated through Linhardt’s body and bounced around in his ribs. Gravity held him in the same position for hours. Time had moved slower than ever before, and he still felt high for the entire next day. It was probably best that Felix managed to fall unconscious.

“Yeeaah,” Sylvain awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck in that fake-apologetic way that Linhardt was already much too familiar with. “Turns out it was his first time ever doing edibles?” 

Linhardt gave him an exasperated look. “You’re awful, Sylvain,” he deadpanned.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sylvain pressed a kiss against Linhardt’s temple and combed his fingers through his silky hair. Linhardt didn’t fight it—it felt nice. “You love it, though.” 

Linhardt just hummed in response as he sat down on the wooden bench. He couldn’t deny that Sylvain’s shenanigans kept his life interesting. Plus, if it weren’t for him, Linhardt wouldn’t be getting free drugs all the time. 

Sylvain removed his bag, placing his bong, lighter, and mason jar of weed on the bench. “I’m already pretty high, you know,” he said, as if he was warning Linhardt or if Linhardt even cared.

A puff of air escaped Linhardt’s nose. “I do know.”

“Huh? Really?” Sylvain looked _genuinely_ shocked. “How’d you know?”

“Sylvain,” Linhardt said, “do you really lack self awareness? Have you looked in a mirror at all?”

His friend pouted. “No, do I _look_ high?”

“Yes, Sylvain.” _Your eyes are as red as your hair and you smell like a skunk._ “Yes, you do.” 

“Aw,” Sylvain tilted his head, and it was kind of cute, just like a puppy. “Well, if it makes it any better, you’re obviously high as hell, too.”

“Mm, I probably am.” He was. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “And here we are.” 

Sylvain sat down next to Linhardt, getting everything ready and spreading his legs so their knees touched. Linhardt still wasn’t sure what exactly their relationship was, but it wasn’t like he was losing sleep over it. They were friends who were roommates who did drugs together and sometimes had sex while on said drugs. Occasionally, Sylvain would say something romantic out of nowhere, and Linhardt would appreciate it, because Sylvain really didn’t have to try to flatter him.

Exhibit A: _right now_.

“You’re so pretty, Lin,” Sylvain purred, lighting the bowl as Linhardt held the bong up to his mouth and inhaled. It’s not that Linhardt needed Sylvain to light it for him, but if he was offering, Linhardt would take any opportunity to conserve his energy. 

The water bubbled quietly as smoke steadily filled up the chamber. Once it was milky and opaque, Sylvain pulled the bowl out for him, and Linhardt cleared the bong for what must have been the thirtieth time this month. He held it in his lungs for a few seconds, and then exhaled it in a thick, satisfying cloud that stilled in the air afterward.

Sylvain let out a low whistle. “Well, I’ll see ya in the morning, Lin.” 

It earned him a small smile from Linhardt. “We’ve smoked every single day since the semester started. I think I’ll be fine.”

“ _Whaaat?_ ” Sylvain exclaimed in disbelief, turning his gaze to Linhardt with wide eyes. “Nuh-uh. You’re lying.”

Linhardt gave him a look of both amusement and disappointment; he noted that Sylvain’s eyes were drooping, he had this ditzy grin on his face, and Linhardt prayed to the goddess that he didn’t look just as destroyed. “Now, what good would it do me to lie to you?”

Sylvain just stared at him, wonder and curiosity and the absence of any brain activity evident in his expression. Linhardt couldn’t deny that his friend was handsome, even when he couldn’t comprehend what was happening. Sylvain eventually settled it with a shrug and took the bong from Linhardt’s hands. 

They passed it back and forth for who knows how long. Linhardt lost track of how many hits he took, and time continued to stretch on. The breeze felt good on his skin, his blood was humming, and his head was calm and empty. He would have been content to sit next to Sylvain for the rest of the night, or maybe lay in the grass and look at the stars.

“Hey, Lin.”

Linhardt glanced up at Sylvain, forcing himself to come back to the present so he could converse with his friend. “Yes?”

A dumb grin tugged at the corner of Sylvain’s mouth. “Why do they call it oven when you of in the cold food of out hot eat the food?”

He gave Sylvain a blank stare. Was it the bong rip he just took or was Sylvain not speaking English? 

“...What?” Linhardt’s own voice sounded distant, echoing in his head as he tried to focus on Sylvain through the darkness.

Sylvain’s smile grew wider. “I said, why do they call it oven when you of in the cold food of out hot eat the food?”

Linhardt tried to unravel the sentence in his head, but his brain felt like it was full of cotton. He gave up and simply asked again, “ _What?_ ”

“Linhardt,” Sylvain pressed, more diligent this time. “Why do they call it oven when you—”

“Sylvain, please, _no_ ,” Linhardt rubbed his temples. “Can you just—” he offered the bong to Sylvain, “can you please just pack me another bowl.”

Sylvain took it from his hands and chuckled, “Sure thing, _princess_.” As he dug into his jar of weed, Linhardt rolled his eyes at the pet name—or maybe he didn’t? It felt like he did, but honestly, he already forgot by now. Maybe he was already way too high and shouldn’t have asked Sylvain to give him more. Although, after that aneurysm of a conversation, Linhardt felt like he needed to ascend further from this plane of existence to forget all about it.

Linhardt stared into the woods, picking apart the shadows of the trees and the whistling of the wind. One time, during one of these daily trysts, a pack of geese approached them, and _yes_ , he and Sylvain were already half an hour into their session and incredibly too high to deal with the fact that they were getting attacked by angry water birds. One of them took Linhardt’s bowl and ran off. It wasn’t fun.

Well, it was a good thing that Sylvain bought a bong and learned how to roll blunts. Linhardt could roll if he really wanted to, but why bother when his friend, who he’d inevitably smoke with, was capable of doing it as well? 

Linhardt sighed and tilted his head back to look at the stars. He loved to let the vast dark sky shrink his body down to nothing; how he wished he could go out into space and explore other planets and galaxies like they showed in movies and other media. However, being an astronaut would take _way_ too much work. He barely had the energy to complete his mundane assignments every week. Also, it probably wouldn’t be too comfortable to sleep on a spaceship.

 _...Wait_.

Linhardt nearly gasped from the epiphany—oh, how he would love to experience the loss of consciousness in a zero gravity setting. He already felt like he was floating in this moment, so it must feel incredible to _actually_ float and fall asleep in the _air_. No pillows, no blankets, or _wait_ , he could wrap himself in a blanket (like a burrito, Sylvain would fondly add). How would it affect his back? Should everyone get the opportunity to fall asleep midair? Waterbeds already exist, so if people could sleep on water, they should be able to sleep on air.

Oh, hold on. Linhardt frowned; air mattresses already existed, and they were pretty uncomfortable on his back. But, if there was absolutely nothing to cause discomfort to him, wouldn’t that be the best sleep of his life? 

Maybe he should try harder in his classes. Maybe he should change his major? Was there an astronaut major? What schools would—

“ _Lin_.”

The sound of Sylvain’s voice next to him sent a jolt through Linhardt’s body, ripping him from his train of thought. Linhardt glanced at him with heavy eyes. “Yes?” he answered, and it immediately gave him deja vu to just a few minutes ago.

Sylvain nudged him with the bong. “Take it.”

Linhardt forgot that he asked to take another hit. “Oh. Thanks,” he murmured. He pulled it into his lap, pawing for the lighter with his other hand. “Where’s the—”

“It’s right here. _I_ have the lighter, silly,” Sylvain drawled with a smile. 

_Shit,_ Linhardt thought when he looked up at Sylvain and it felt like the world stopped. _I’m high as fuck._

He barely remembered taking his last hit of the night; it was like he was watching someone else do it for him in slow motion. He was so far gone, he couldn’t even feel the smoke in his lungs. It was just like he was breathing as usual.

Linhardt blew out the cloud, Sylvain took some more hits, and after a few more minutes of staring at the ceiling of the gazebo, Linhardt realized his mouth was dry as _shit_. His throat was scratchy and his tongue felt thick and uncomfortable. Apparently, Sylvain felt exactly the same way.

“ _Fuck_ , I’m thirsty,” Sylvain sighed, looking up at Linhardt hopefully. “Did you bring anything to drink?”

“No,” Linhardt stated without skipping a beat. He caught the exact moment that Sylvain’s hopes and dreams were thoroughly crushed and he would have laughed, but he was suffering just as much.

Sylvain threw his head back with a groan. The water bottle he used to fill up the bong was completely empty, Linhardt noted. 

But then— _slowly_ —Linhardt came to a realization.

“What about the water in the bong?”

This time, it was Sylvain’s turn to give him a concerned look. “Please don’t suggest something like that ever again.”

Linhardt frowned. “Why not? It’s just water.”

“Linhardt.” Sylvain’s tone was stern, and of course this was one of the only things he took seriously. He held the bong up to Linhardt’s face. “Just _smell it_.”

He gave it a sniff; it didn’t smell like anything. “It doesn’t smell like anything.”

Sylvain rolled his eyes. “Now, you’re just fucking with me. You want me to drink the bong water, don’t you? You want to see me puke?”

“I don’t recall saying that, but—”

“Fine! Give me that,” Sylvain snatched the piece from Linhardt’s hands, mumbled some prayer to the goddess, and then threw it back like a shot.

His body rejected it the moment it touched his teeth.

A sick, wet sound met the concrete and Sylvain doubled over, coughing and sputtering like never before. “Fucking—” Another retch from deep within. “Holy fucking _shit_. That was,” he took a second to wheeze, “horrible. Damn it, Lin, fuck you, _fuck you_.”

“Huh.” Now, Linhardt was curious. If it affected Sylvain so badly that he cursed him, it must have really been something. Not to mention, his mouth still felt like a desert. “Let me try it.”

Sylvain eagerly shoved it at him. “Knock yourself out. I hope you puke.”

“Thanks.” Linhardt gave it another sniff, and it _really_ didn’t smell like anything to him. Was Sylvain okay? Was _he_ okay? He tentatively tipped his head back and took a short sip. 

Linhardt swallowed it just fine. It was just water. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you,” Sylvain said, as more of a curious exclamation than an actual question. 

Linhardt allowed himself a smile. “Sorry to disappoint you by not puking my guts out.” And then, he finished it off, embracing the ecstasy that was soothing his cottonmouth. 

“Wait, no, seriously Lin, how are you—why are you—” Sylvain sighed as he tried to exercise his brain to string the right words together. “And you said what _Dimitri_ did was gross.”

“That’s because it was,” Linhardt said matter-of-factly. “I’m drinking water, not eating part of a blunt.”

“I can _assure you_ that bong water tastes nastier than a roach.”

“It just tastes like how my mouth tastes.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Sylvain started packing his things back in his bag. “You’re just not getting a kiss, tonight.”

Linhardt stood up, dusting his sweatpants off. “You say that like I care.”

Sylvain’s hand flew up to his chest and he pouted. “Oh, you wound me, Linhardt.” He followed it with a quick wink and then nudged Linhardt with his elbow, adding, “I’ll still eat you out, though.”

Linhardt let out a puff of air through his nose. “Only if you insist,” he returned with a small smile. He looked up at Sylvain, and in that moment, he swore Sylvain was gazing at him like he was his entire world. It was pretty heartwarming. Or, maybe he was just fucked up and zoning out, but Linhardt liked to indulge himself in the former.

The walk back to their dorm passed in a drawn-out haze. They ran into a few people they knew (or were _supposed_ to know) in the hallway, and they _definitely_ knew that Linhardt and Sylvain weren’t in the same dimension as them, especially with Sylvain’s bloodshot eyes and the pungent smell that they left behind. Soon enough though, they were back to safety. Linhardt made a beeline for the living room and threw himself down onto the plush heaven that was their ratty, beer-stained couch.

As he stared at the ceiling, Linhardt came to a quick realization: he was _starving_.

“Sylvain.”

“Yeah?” Sylvain’s voice was distant as he dropped off his bag of paraphernalia in his room.

Linhardt tried to move his limbs, but it felt like he was paralyzed from the head down. “Can you make me something? I’m starving and I can’t get up.”

“Huh?” Footsteps approached Linhardt and before he knew it, Sylvain’s head was peeking at him from over the back of the couch. “Yeah, sure. Whatcha want?”

Oh. He didn’t get _that far_ in his head. “What do we have?”

“I’ll go check.” 

Linhardt heard Sylvain yell and trip over something just seconds later. He continued to stare up at the ceiling though, completely unbothered and waiting.

Cabinets opened and closed in the kitchen. “We have beef ramen, mac and cheese, and—” _more cabinets opening and closing_ , “peanut butter.”

“...Beef ramen, mac and cheese, and peanut butter,” Linhardt echoed flatly.

“Yeah. I mean, I guess I can mix it all up together, if you want. I wouldn’t be surprised since you apparently drink bong water, now.”

Linhardt gave a short laugh; that really bothered him, didn’t it? “Mac and cheese by itself is fine.”

“You got it, babe,” Sylvain said, and Linhardt could practically hear him wink.

As he waited, Linhardt began to doze off, because what else would he do? He didn’t feel like moving, so he couldn’t pick up the remote to put something on the TV. Gravity was pulling him down _just right_ , and he didn’t know if he’d ever felt so comfortable in his life. There was no point in fighting off the drowsiness.

“Hey, Lin, we’re out of milk,” Sylvain shook him back to consciousness. The words didn’t really process in his mind.

“Other liquids exist.”

“Huh. You’re right, other liquids _do_ exist.”

“Yep,” Linhardt yawned, and then closed his eyes again. It probably would have been better to lay in his bed, especially since Sylvain kept the living room _so fucking cold_ and it was too late for Linhardt to move to get a blanket.

After resting his eyes for what felt like hours, Linhardt’s phone buzzed in his pocket, jolting him awake again. His friends barely texted him this late, and he had every group chat muted, so curiosity motivated him to actually check the notification. To his surprise—and confusion—it was a text from Sylvain. Why was he texting him when they were in the same living space?

sylvain:  
_Me putting a mango white claw in Lin’s mac and cheese bc we’re out of milk_  
10:53pm

Attached was a picture of a pair of jeans, somehow standing up on its own in the middle of a room, with white text plastered across, _Yall Mine If I Wild Out ?_

Linhardt quickly set forth on his quest to send his own response.

me:  
_me having to buy a new microwave because my roommate ate 4 edibles and decided to microwave a spoon because he saw a life hack that it would mkae it easier to scoop his ice cream_  
10:57pm

And along with it, he sent a blurry picture he took a week ago of Sylvain unconscious on the bathroom floor, curled around their toilet with his pants pulled down and bare asscheeks out.

The effect was immediate.

“ _Hey_ ,” Sylvain cried. “I... I didn’t mean to send that to you. And I didn’t actually put a mango white claw in your mac and cheese.”

“What did you put in it, then?”

Linhardt heard Sylvain’s footsteps approach the couch. “A _ruby grapefruit_ white claw,” he grinned, placing the bowl of pasta on the coffee table. “Bone apple feet!”

Out of disbelief and concern, Linhardt actually managed to sit up and pull the mac and cheese into his lap. It _bubbled_. It was probably radioactive. A disappointed, “What the hell,” was all Linhardt could manage in that moment.

“Come on, it’s probably not _that_ bad.” The couch shifted when Sylvain sat down next to him.

As pasta and cheese continued to fizz before his eyes, Linhardt found that his appetite had completely disintegrated. “I think I’m good,” he said, placing the bowl back on the coffee table.

Sylvain gave him a dramatic, exasperated sigh. “After all the love and care I put into it, you’re not even gonna try it?”

“No.”

“You’re so _picky_ ,” Sylvain whined, as if he didn’t put fucking alcoholic seltzer water in Linhardt’s food. “Fine, I’m not gonna let this go to waste.”

The next 30 seconds went by like Linhardt was watching a scene from a movie. 

(A really, really bad movie.) 

As soon as Sylvain put the fork up to his mouth, he made a retching noise that reminded Linhardt of the scene back at the gazebo. Sylvain immediately threw a hand over his mouth and _sprinted_ to the bathroom. In the distance, Linhardt heard the promising splash of something dropping into the toilet. 

Linhardt’s body moved on its own and before he knew it, he found himself staring down at Sylvain, who was laying face down on the bathroom floor and wheezing. There was some macaroni on the toilet seat.

Linhardt decided he had enough of today.

“I’m going to bed,” he told Sylvain’s lifeless body. He managed to snap a picture of the scene before he left, adding to his growing collection of _Sylvain passed out on the bathroom floor_. “Good night.”

Linhardt couldn’t remember the journey to his own bed. All he knew was that now, as he curled up under his multitude of blankets, he was bound to get the best sleep of his entire life. 

He always had the most interesting and lucid dreams when he went to sleep high. Maybe tonight, he’d dream of Sylvain puking up bong water in a spaceship, while a flock of space geese led by Claude and Dimitri chased after them. And through it all, Linhardt would be sleeping in midair.

As Linhardt drifted away from consciousness, he came to a sudden realization:

Sylvain never ate him out.

 _Maybe in the morning_ , he told himself, and returned to his thoughts of space geese.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading :~)
> 
> and ty to my beta pumpkin, and boba for sylvain fucking up the mac and cheese idea
> 
> (and just all of my friends for their support lol)
> 
> i'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/softmatchabun)!


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